never not be

pg | no warnings

They will never not be again.

And she feels the need to write this on the napkin, on the cheap paper placemat, over and over again, in black, in blue, in red. Keep writing it until the pens in her purse are dry. Write it on the table and the walls, scrawl it on the sidewalk, the way she used to write 'Donna + Billy' in pretty pink chalk.

It's been six hours and six hours from now, six days from now, it doesn't matter; they will never not be again. She's felt the pressure of his lips on hers, seen his face when everything empties out of him, spills into her. She knows what her name sounds like when he's inside her, how he can't even manage an audible syllable afterwards. She's tasted hidden parts of him, spit him out onto the sheets when he wasn't looking, licked his skin to get the bitter taste out of her mouth.

They will never not be again; he'll never be able to look at her without thinking about the sight of her between his legs, the feel of her hair on his thighs. He'll try to talk to her about Senators and budget plans and electoral votes and he'll be remembering how she couldn't stop chanting his name, how she cried - yes, cried - when she came.

Josh is aware of this. More to the point, based on the look he gave her when he left her bed, when he threw on his clothes and ran off to avert some late night crisis, he relishes it. He has ruined her, stained her -

(Why think of it like that?)

- and he likes it. He's marked her; she's his now, never to be not his again.

She can't explain to the waitress why her hands shake, why she spills coffee all over the table. She can't offer a reason for the tears. This is what she wanted, after all.

(Isn't it?)

Hundreds of fantasies, hundreds of nights with her vibrator and a pillow and blanket to muffle the sound, because the hotel walls were too, too thin. A shred of hope in a hospital in Germany, even after, even after.

Her phone rings and she turns it off, drops it back in her purse. Not enough cash, so she has to use her Visa. Twenty percent tip and her signature seems like a forgery; she's not Donna Moss anymore. She died six hours ago, slipped away while something else took her place.

Suicide or homicide, the jury's still out.

She will never not be again, and she can't explain to anyone why it makes her cry.

(fin.)